


bàth-ròs

by HyfrydCymru (a_haunting_of_four)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Fluff, Humor, Intimacy, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-17 22:26:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29599647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_haunting_of_four/pseuds/HyfrydCymru
Summary: Arthur makes it home early enough that it’s a conscious decision to skip tea in favour of a bath.It feels like he has only just settled down when the floorboards outside the bathroom door creak under the weight of a very distinct, stomping stride.
Relationships: England/Scotland (Hetalia)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 26





	bàth-ròs

**Author's Note:**

> shin thu! 
> 
> moppy : a sweet, daft way of saying rabbit; in this instance a teasing pet name.   
> bàth-ròs : rosemary 
> 
> meal is caith e! <3

The week stretches on from exhausting to hellish, and turns back on its head again on Thursday morning. All it takes is a phone call from the Foreign Office, and their house of cards comes tumbling down. The rest of the day blurs by in a flurry of exasperated calls and running between floors--one office to the next, boardrooms and fires to put out one after the other--and before he can catch his breath he’s been wrung dry and left hanging by a thread to what little is left of his patience. 

He makes it home early enough that it’s a conscious decision to skip tea in favour of a bath. 

For a moment, as he’s waiting for the water level to rise, he seriously considers sticking his head under the faucet and calling it a night. But it’ll be worth it, he decides. Hot water, the sharp herbal scent of the bath oil he pilfered from Wales. A book he won’t read placed safely away from the water’s reach, and a hot toddy he drains before stepping into the bath with a sigh. A stolen evening, before work claims him again in the morning. 

It feels like he has only just settled down when the floorboards outside the bathroom door creak under the weight of a very distinct, stomping stride.

No, Arthur thinks,  _ no _ .

“No,” he says aloud when the door handle rattles and gives. ” _ No. _ Go away.”

“Having a bath, are we?” Alasdair seems to at least have done him the courtesy of leaving his boots downstairs. They’ll be muddy, based on the hem of his trousers.

“Shut the door, please,” Arthur asks through gritted teeth and curls into himself, skin pebbling when a cold draft slips in through the gap left by Alasdair’s body.

“Wee lamb,” Scotland needles, but does have the mind to pull the door closed behind him. “Are ye cold?”

“Allow me to rephrase. Shut the door,” Arthur snaps. “With you on the  _ other _ side.”

“Right balmy in here.” Alasdair ignores him and reaches down to tug his pullover over his head, leaving his hair a wild mess of auburn curls. “Is that rosemary?”

“Yes.” Arthur flicks some water at Alasdair’s face when he steps closer to dip his hand in the tub. ”Get!” 

“You’re stewing, moppy,” Alasdair flicks him back and takes a step back before Arthur can retaliate. “Shall I fetch ye the parsley too? Garlic?”

Arthur’s retort dies on his tongue when Alasdair starts undoing the buttons of his shirt and he’s momentarily distracted by the width of his chest. 

“You’re a horror,” he gripes weakly in the end, and Alasdair cocks a brow as if to say _ Really? That’s it? _

“One evening,” he pleads. “All I am asking for, is one evening of peace.”

The sound of Alasdair’s zipper is an emphatic ‘no’.

\--

“You know,” Arthur muses, eyes firmly on the ceiling, “you  _ could _ have gone upstairs. Where there is another, perfectly serviceable bath.”

“Aye,” Alasdair has the gall to sigh with relief as he sinks down into the water, making himself comfortable. Bastard. “I ken.”

Arthur groans, too tired to do much more than complain.

“It’s larger, for one—” he tries.

“Is it?”

“—and it’s adjoined to your room,” he picks up his head to glower at Scotland, voice sharp.

“Hm,” Alasdair considers this. “Aye. I suppose that’s true. Room’s warmer too.”

“Bugger off to it then!” 

Alasdair grins and settles back.

“Naw.”

Arthur kicks out a leg, water splashing out of the tub, and has it promptly pushed back under before it can connect with a shoulder. Alasdair doesn’t so much as open his eyes to do it. He looks comfortable enough with his head thrown back and arms hooked over the edges; shoulders almost too broad for the free-standing tub in the guest bathroom.

_ Guest _ bathroom, because when they were splitting up the house amongst themselves for the sake of peace in the long term (four to a house, then five, even if they’re rarely all living in it together at once) Scotland had taken the only room with an en suite and they had let him have it.

Fat load of good it is doing him now.

“I didn’t know you were home,” Arthur grouses.

“It’s seven on a Thursday, where else would I be?” 

“Scotland.”

“Aye?”

“You’re unbearable,” England’s voice drips contempt. “Edinburgh. I thought you were in Edinburgh.”

“I was.” Alasdair cranes his neck to the side until it gives a satisfying crack. “ _ Ah _ . Jolty ride.”

“Was it?” Arthur asks woodenly.

(And does not for a split second consider reaching across the space between to… touch him. Brush his knee. Flick his wrist where it hangs outside the tub, almost close enough that it could pass for a spontaneous decision rather than something carefully considered.

Alasdair cracks open an eye, just enough to catch his gaze and Arthur has to look away before his face gives away something he’ll regret.)

“Train was crowded.” Scotland cuts him loose; takes a deep breath and lets his eye slide shut. The corner of his mouth twitches up into an easy smirk. “Kind of you to start the bath.”

Arthur is caught between a quippy comeback and an insult. Takes too long to settle on either, and says nothing instead.

He gives up any further attempts at arguing with the wet, stubborn cow that chose to disrupt his evening in favour of silence, and makes up his mind to ignore him. It’s a commendable feat really, considering that Arthur can feel Alasdair’s leg hair brushing against him where he is forced to bend his knees slightly to avoid brushing against something  _ else _ that is conveniently right  _ there _ .

Shameless  _ bastard _ .

Arthur lets his head drop back again, forcing himself to close his eyes and relax; enjoy the scalding water and breath in the steamy air until he feels a light headed. He had folded a towel over the bathtub’s ledge to spare his already-sore muscles from the cold ceramic and it does a decent job of it, damp and warm against the nape of his neck. For all his bellyaching Scotland doesn’t seem fussed about the sharp lip that must be digging into his neck with the way he’s resting over it.

In any case, if he’s sorer by the end of this it serves him right. 

If Arthur was feeling generous (which he is not) he might concede that he doesn’t mind having Alasdair here; not in truth. He is fine enough company of late. And there is… whatever it is they’re doing. Inching closer together by degrees. Stepping past boundaries and leaving doors unlocked where they would never do so before. There has always been the comfort of familiarity between them at the best of times (and the worst of times) but there is a different sort of ease starting to settle in the gaps left by having nothing to say. Headier than comfort, and tense.

It doesn’t register at first that Alasdair is humming, on and off. Some song Arthur only vaguely recognises from the radio, deep and low in his chest. The sound is dampened by the balmy air, but in the reduced space of the bathroom his voice is more intimate, somehow, than the brush of wet skin.

( _ Familiar _ . And oh, this was inevitable from the start.)

It soothes the tension between his shoulder blades. Lulls him into letting his guard down.

He is starting to drift off when the water is disturbed.

Something nudges the side of his face. Once, gently, and he twitches away. Again—and he lets it slide for the sake of peace. Refuses to rise to the bait. What he is almost sure is Alasdair’s toe starts tapping more insistently against his cheek in retaliation and he turns to avoid it, irked but resolute.

It is considerably harder to ignore Scotland when he shoves his foot under his nose, wiggling his toes and coming dangerously close to jamming them into his mouth.

“Good fuck—” Catching hold of his ankle, Arthur looks ready to bite. “What is your problem?”

The problem, Alasdair thinks, is that even sitting close as they are it still feels like Arthur is too far away. So he had taken a train South with only the clothes on his back and walked straight up the stairs to where he knew he would find him. 

And now here they were.

He watches Arthur amusedly with heavy-lidded eyes. Only sits up straighter when Arthur does, waiting for him to pounce. 

It is too easy, sometimes, to rile the lad up and watch him go off; measure the heat of his temper by the angry blush that burns on his cheeks and spreads down and across the narrow valley of his chest.

“I was missing yer pretty eyes,” he says, flexing his ankle. Arthur tightens his grip. 

It is also best to provoke him now and again. Let him lash out before he runs himself ragged chafing against a role he’s ill suited for. Whatever he might object, there has always been a wildness at the core of him, and no amount of playing dutiful secretary under three layers of tweed can stifle it.

And if it sends a frizzle of excitement shooting up his spine to see some of that old fire flicker in Arthur’s eyes well. Alasdair is only a man.

He’s ready to have a go at catching Arthur between his thighs and pulling him closer the moment he as much as twitches forward. What he isn’t expecting is for the furrow of Arthur’s brow to soften, his glare easing into something less hostile but just as piercing. 

Arthur relaxes the murderous grip he has on his ankle and pulls his foot closer to press his lips gently to the instep. 

(For the briefest of moments, Alasdair feels the urge to shove him away. But he can’t; he  _ can’t _ . Floored still by this strange, new tension between them. The weight of every touch they share now. Turning caresses into blows, and violence into the unthinkable.)

Sliding down to rest against the tub again he lets the tension in his muscles melt away as England shifts his hold. His calf twitches when he feels the playful scrape of teeth on the thin skin by his ankle bone, but his body feels loose and warm. Arthur presses another kiss an inch higher, and slips his other hand under the surface to brace against Alasdair’s leg. It plucks an easy hum from Scotland’s chest.

“Arthur,” he croons.

“Shush,” water slips down Arthur’s chest as he switches to kneeling. How he doesn’t send half the tub spilling down the sides Alasdair isn’t sure but the effect isn’t lost on him. It’s a handsome sight, and one he doesn’t often get to indulge in.

Then Arthur shifts his weight subtly, and some of the fire is banked.

“Yer knee, moppy,” it’s not so much concern as a reminder. 

(An old injury; of the few that stuck well past when it should have healed.)

England only squeezes his thigh in response.

He is bracketed by Scotland’s thighs now, left shoulder brushing the underside of Alasdair’s calf and lips pressed to the unexpectedly sensitive side of his knee. His other hand is slowly inching higher, stroking over the muscles of his thigh all the way up to the fold of his hip. A teasing swipe of his nail near his navel makes Alasdair hiss and Arthur’s mouth twitches up into a smile.

Alasdair reaches over to sweep the pad of his thumb over the dimple that dents his cheek. 

“Come ‘ere.” He brushes his hand over Arthur’s shoulder as he lets it drop away. 

Arthur shushes him again, muffled against his skin and reaches around his hip to grip what he can of his arse and the side of his thigh under water. Alasdair curses and lets his head drop back with a curse. 

“You’re stiff as a board.” Arthur cups the underside of his raised thigh and pushes it further. Alasdair groans, partly from the strain it puts on his hip flexor and mostly from the arousal that makes him twitch against his own thigh.

“Kind of you tae notice.” Alasdair tilts his head, cocking an eyebrow suggestively, and is gratified when he catches Arthur peering down his chest again. Eyes flickering low and up again underneath the pale fan of his lashes. 

“Hm, you’re indecent,” Arthur censures distractedly and buzzes his lips against a scar marring the skin of his shin.

The outside curve of his thigh has always been coarse; skin thick and furred. He isn’t expecting the thrill it sends to his groin when Arthur palms down the curve of it, stopping where he can slip his fingers under the sensitive bend of his knee. Matching his grip on both thighs. 

There is an impish glint in Arthur’s eyes when he meets his gaze again. Something in the way he smiles. Excitement pools hot at the base of Alasdair’s spine and he wonders hazily how long Arthur might be able to hold his breath under water.

Unfortunately for him, Arthur is in a better position to find out. 

A sudden jerk on Alasdair’s thighs gives away the ruse, and sends him sliding down and under until his back is pressed flat against the bottom of the tub. Naked arse up in the air.

Arthur’s cackle is muffled by the water in his ears.

Half-drowning, half-irate, Alasdair reconsiders whether he should have kicked Arthur when he had the chance.

He comes up for air, spitting water, and with one knee stuck over the edge which (if his laughter’s anything to go by) Arthur seems to find  _ hilarious _ . 

Alasdair splashes as much water as he can in his direction and catches him across the face before Arthur can bring up an arm to spare himself the worst of it. 

“Oi! Mind the book,” Arthur doesn’t even glance towards it, snorting still. 

“Yer book’s fine!” Alasdair splashes him again, and huffs a laugh. “You hypocrite,” he adds, sotto voce.

Arthur is still kneeling, close enough that Alasdair can take a hold of his waist after he swings his leg back into the tub. 

He cannot help the fond smile that curves the side of his mouth when Arthur reaches up to brush the wet strands of his hair away from his face.

“Got it out yer system now?” He asks, voice low.

“Hm,” Arthur tilts his face when Alasdair leans in closer and cups his neck. Alasdair can feel him shiver when the hand on his waist sweeps across his back to pull him closer, until they are pressed chest to chest. They’re almost of a height like this, and when Arthur relaxes into his hold it brings them close enough to kiss.

“You’re warm,” their lips brush as Alasdair speaks. 

Arthur’s eyes look a little hazy. 

“You taste bitter,” he whispers back. 

Alasdair kisses the words out of his mouth, slow and sweet. Tangles his hand in Arthur’s short hair and holds him secure against him. Arthur’s hands are caught between them, resting over Alasdair’s collarbone.

When they part it is only to take a shared breath, still close enough for their lips to dovetail. 

“Arthur?” Alasdair brushes their noses together playfully.

“Hm?” Arthur’s eyes are closed, mouth parted just enough to suck a kiss on Alasdair’s lower lip. 

Alasdair grins. Pulls on the hair at the nape of Arthur’s nape to make him gasp.

...and locks them into a deep kiss before falling back into the water with a splash.

He steals his next breath from Arthur’s lungs.

**Author's Note:**

> please leave a comment & kudos, it'll make my day! <3
> 
> you can find me on tumblr @honey-spice-plaid


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